


Hana Maʻa

by Leidolette



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-04-05 19:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19046656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leidolette/pseuds/Leidolette
Summary: Now triumphant explorers, the crews of the Terror and Erebus put into harbor in the Sandwich Islands. But does not one always bring one’s habits along?





	Hana Maʻa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/gifts).



> Happy Fandom 5K, Tish!

The ship's boys slept out on the main deck the night before they first sighted the Sandwich Islands, it was so warm. Gibson wished he could've as well, and felt the warm night breezes of a tropical sea flowing over his face, but there was no dignity in lying like a dog on the weather deck, so all those except with no standing to lose stayed below in their hammocks and, for the lucky ones, narrow bunks.

Usually long accustomed to sleeping under whatever conditions presented themselves, Gibson was surprised to find himself only able to attain a restless twilight sleep, at best. He had the vague feeling that strange dreams disturbed him whenever he did manage a few moments of true sleep, though he could not recall at all what they may have been about. Something about Hickey and himself back on the Arctic ice, perhaps? Gibson's back was wet with sweat (from fear or from heat?), and he tried to relax his tense body back to sleep.

Gibson woke again, later, half-expecting to see the glint of Hickey’s eyes in the low lamplight. But it was merely his bunk mate kicking fitfully against the boards in his sleep. Still, Gibson strained his ears, wondering if there wasn’t still a chance that Hickey would pass by the door and make some sign for Gibson to slip out and follow. 

Their assignations had became easier as the latitude dropped. Less layers to push to the side, and dark corners partially exposed to the outside air were now viable locations and not deathtraps. Each hot exhale from their lungs no longer hung like a flare to announce their position. Wet kisses no longer froze on the skin. 

Gibson turned over in his tight bunk. 

The ships were getting so close. They’d seen the birds first. Soaring birds came first, on wings that carried them for miles and miles without need for rest on either water or earth. Whether they were searching for God or fish out here above the waves, Gibson didn't know.

The whales were next -- a whole pod. It was a sight that was rarer now than when Gibson had first set sail, for all that had been not so many years ago. Great hulks of meat and blood and oil, worth hundreds of pounds each, swam past their ships, unbothered by the scores of hungry eyes that followed them from the deck. 

If Gibson could have caught one, he would’ve. Done every piece of butchery himself for the chance at the profit from from their slippery oil. But Gibson didn’t have the means for such direct violence (it seemed he never did), so the whales' bursts of mist and seawater they spouted from their blowholes slowly faded into the distance as living prizes waiting to be caught by bolder men. 

The closer they had gotten to the islands the more Hickey... sharpened. Most of the men were chomping at the bit to eat something other than the canned ox tail stew that came out of the can spoiled as often as not, but Hickey seemed to have something else on his mind. When they kissed, he bit; when they fucked, his fingers curled into the nearly non-existent softness of Gibson’s waist. 

When the first island finally, _finally_ came into view, it did not feel real. It was a mirage rising above the sea. A fairyland. Green mountains rising tall above turquoise harbors and yellow beaches; on the open sea, on the ice, a man could forget that there were more colors than just grey, blue, and white -- it was startling to be reminded so vividly.

The ships put in to Brown’s Harbor to the sounds of waves lapping against the shore and the faint cheers and hollers from the crews of British ships already in port. The mood on the Terror was strange and effervescent. It felt as though all the rules were temporarily suspended. As if next the ship's boys would be crowned captains and Neptune himself might rise up from the deep to oversee the ceremony. Gibson even spotted Captain Crozier with something resembling a real smile as he walked the quarterdeck.

The common atmosphere became a little more grounded after they dropped anchor in the harbor and began preparing for the arduous task of re-supplying. But even here, the crew were pleasantly surprised. After only a little discussion with their master to agree on wages, Sandwich Islanders and Chinese laborers stretched out in a moving line as they carried supplies to and from the ships. The ABs were happily spared the worst of the work.

The sound of unknown languages washed over Gibson, and foreign faces looked back at him as he took in the locals. It was not Gibson’s first time being among the inhabitants of strange and distant lands, but it had been so long since he had seen any face other than those British souls that sailed with him that the sight of someone new (and native, at that) startled him. And there were so many! For Gibson, the world had begun and ended at one hundred twenty-nine for so long now. 

When the wind blew in from the little settlement on the shore, smoke from the cook fires carried smells he could not identify. Some made his mouth water, some made him queasy. Billy Orren next to him was praying incessantly under his breath that there would be a helping of fresh carrots and mutton somewhere on this island. As long as it filled his stomach, the type of food mattered less to Gibson than he would have suspected a year ago. 

Captain Crozier called all hands but those performing the most indispensable of tasks to assemble on main deck as he addressed them from the slightly elevated quarterdeck. 

“Yes, men, we’ve once again found ourselves back in port. And this time we are pulling in as heroes of the British Empire,” Captain Crozier drawled under heavy-lidded eyes. “And you deserve every bit of that praise. Each of you paid every hour of duty you owed, and many far beyond it.” He stopped and let the praise sink in — many were fighting back smiles — before continuing on with the more pertinent part of his speech. 

“Indeed, it is time for celebration. But do not take leave of your senses — even heroes can be flogged.”

The captain strolled from one end of the deck to the other, looking at each man in turn. “There’ll be no larking about in port, no trouble. Don’t bother the women.”

Sir John must be making a similar speech over on Erebus, though it was likely to be much longer, and phrased prettier. The assembly that Sir John had presided over when the ships had found the Passage and safely made it through to the other side hade been a formal, multi-hour affair, though the crews’ spirits had been too high for any man to much lament it. 

Captain Crozier was more to the point. In fact, he was almost done. 

"When you set foot on the island, you may be on dry land, but, remember: you are the crew of the Terror, of the British Navy, and you will be until you are released."

Then the Captain let whatever somber atmosphere he had managed to conjure melt away, and said, with eyes crinkled by a smile, and real feeling:

“Welcome to the Sandwich Isles, men.”

* * *

Gibson's duties did not end when they dropped anchor in the natural deep water harbor. If anything, they intensified - shoes needed extra blacking and shining, seams needed mending and pressing, and all clothing needed constant attention in the eternal battle against tropical perspiration. 

Additionally, all three captains were in high demand at the dinner parties, clubs, and teas that were merely political hobnobbing disguised as social events. 

Discoverers of the Northwest Passage. New additions to the ever-growing list of heroes of the British Empire. Brave men who had stood against all the elements the far top of the world had to throw at them — and come out victorious. This was the news that spread from parlour to lanai.

Sir John especially was the toast of the town. There was even talk that King Kamehame III would soon extend the captain an invitation to dine with the royal family in the palace. Even the natives had kings, it seemed. People must sort themselves the world over, Gibson supposed.

"You're a victim of your own success, eh, Sir?" Captain Fitzjames said teasingly to Sir John as Gibson was dressing Lieutenant Little for yet another garden party at some whaling captain’s part-time estate. The officers from both ships had just recently conclude a short meeting aboard the Terror (that Gibson had of course poured the tea for and cleaned up after), and were preparing to depart together.

"Now, now," Sir John said, but a soft smile deepened the creases at the corner of his mouth for the rest of the time Gibson spent tying and straightening Little's cravat.

For a steward, the success of a mission was sometimes not particularly meaningful as long as the damn thing stayed afloat. He did not captain the ship, he did not chart the course, he did not man the wheel or set the sail. When they return to England, Gibson will not recieve any particular accolade. There was no knighthood or promotion waiting for him at the end of this journey. 

Still, even for someone of his station, it was better to be associated with success than with failure. Gibson supposed that, for a Captain, it was preferable that even the man who mended your hems be associated with the empire’s finest. Superstition held more sway on the sea than most sitting in London’s seats of power would prefer. He would have a story to tell for the rest of his life, certainly. However, invitations were not exactly piling up at Gibson’s door from the local landowners. 

Tensions ebbed and flowed between the British, the French, the Americans, and the Sandwich Islanders. The arrival of two fully crewed and outfitted ships of the British Discovery Service changed the delicate balance. Britain's power in the isles wordlessly deepened, and deformed whatever assumptions had been made among the populace. But polite social functions hosted by the white islanders for other white islanders would not be closed to the town's newest celebrities, no matter their nationalities. Unless canons were actually in the process of being fired, dinner would still be served.

And the captains must look their best for the social to-do scheduled for the afternoon. Gibson moved over to smooth out the smallest of wrinkles on Sir John's lapel. Sir John looked past Gibson, examining his reflection in the mirror. Seemingly satisfied enough with what he found there, he turned to give a once-over to his second and third.

Captain Crozier stood slightly behind the other men, his expression approaching the edge of sullen. Still, his cravat was tied intricately and sharply against his throat and not a single speck of stubble showed on his cheeks. Gibson noticed the stiff lines of Crozier's high collar as well, and vaguely admired Jopson's handiwork. Gibson could starch a fine collar for Sir John as well, but at least he didn't have to stand in a miasma of whiskey fumes to apply it.

If anyone here was a victim of his own success, it would surely be Captain Crozier -- for he surely did look victimized. Gibson wondered if the only thing that could induce him to subject himself to such social absurdities was the promise of free-flowing spirits at the sugar baron's table.

Seemingly positioned to best display the contrast between himself and Crozier, Fitzjames stood smartly to the right of Sir John, cutting quite the sharp figure. The captain looked as if he would be a sought-after addition to any table in the world, including the Queen's herself. Fabric seemed to simply mold to Captain Fitzjames better, Gibson had long noted. 

Captain Fitzjames shot a dark look at Crozier. If the man noticed, he ignored it; Sir John certainly did. "Shall we, gentlemen?" Sir John said to his fellow captains as he slid his hands into the kid gloves proffered by Gibson -- the finishing touch to his outfit.

The room was soothingly quiet when the three captains finally cleared the room; leaving Gibson with the laundry, the mess, and the space to breathe.

* * *

The days passed in a sun-drenched blur. Repairs and restocking seemed to be progressing at a snail’s pace; the Navy was apparently in no hurry to move them elsewhere on the map. In the Officer's mess, Gibson learned that the situation in the Sandwich Islands was politically unstable, though not suspected to devolve into violence in the short term. Still, the Navy kept their ships in port. 

It was something of a novel experience for the men — all this time stationary in tropical waters. The sunshine and warmth seemed to be encouraging the growth of something in Hickey. He couldn't seem to get enough of Gibson. Hickey appeared to be there for every shadowed, off-duty moment, for every walk between the ships that Hickey could stretch out just a little longer. At every spare moment -- any time there was the barest veneer of privacy -- all Gibson’s senses were filled with hands running down his back, kisses, hard cocks.

It was a miracle they weren’t discovered. But then, this voyage had been full of miracles, and a few more little ones didn’t seem too much to ask. Distantly, Gibson realized this might be the happiest time in his life. It was not so much a conscious thought, but something that snuck up on him when he wasn’t attending. His belly was full every day and the frigid cold no longer dogged his every step. He still sometimes dreamed that he was lying out on the ice, but the dread in his nights simply underscored the sweetness of his days.

Hickey, too, was changing. Little, physical changes were the easiest to notice: days of tropical sunshine had lightened Hickey’s hair to a reddish-blond; Hickey’s skin no longer had the same pale (nearly grey) pallor it had expressed at the pole; the hollows of his cheeks lost some of their hungry prominence. 

But changes that had lain dormant in Hickey’s mind didn’t begin to reveal themselves until a day, about three weeks after their arrival, when Hickey found Gibson lazily working under the sun, not thinking about much at all. 

“This seems a better place than most to make a real start in the world," said Hickey as he sidled up next to Gibson who had busied himself with checking the lengths and lengths of stored rigging. Gibson's half-lidded eyes slid towards him; Gibson didn't say anything.

"Plenty of land, plenty of opportunity -- if you can seize it. Might be easier for a man to make his way if there were two. A partner, to watch his back." Hickey continued to coil the rope, not looking at Gibson -- but not avoiding his eyes either. Hickey was still as calm and as lazy as a cat in the sun, despite the seriousness of what Gibson knew he was suggesting.

"Desertion," Gibson said flatly. Not another soul was around, yet still the word felt dangerous. Powerful.

Hickey shrugged. "If you want to call it that."

“The Admiralty and everyone else is going to call it that, if we get caught, Cornelius.” Ah, but here Gibson knew he had made a mistake. Already he was speaking as if this was an enterprise he were considering, instead of dismissing it out of hand as he ought. It made his position look weak. It looked like he could be convinced, if only Hickey could find the right words. And Hickey could so often find the right words. 

But Hickey didn’t press, for now, didn’t say anything at all. He smiled, and went about with the ropes. Hickey, is a fool, Gibson thought angrily, we have a good situation going here, and he wants to disrupt that. This is the best we can hope for — don’t ruin it. 

A bird he did not recognize flitted down from high on the mast to perch on a coil of rope. It turned it's head back and forth in a jerking fashion, sizing Gibson up. Gibson looked back at it blindly, Hickey's words fomenting in his brain.

* * *

More than most of the AB's, Gibson was allowed a modicum of freedom of movement. Collars drooped quickly in the tropical heat, and drooped collars were about as acceptable to a celebrated captain as dog shit on a porcelin plate, so Gibson was given dispensation to leave the ship to procure more starch, or anything else that would keep the ships’ officers’ uniforms looking like model-perfect examples of the British Navy. 

He made his way into town alone. However, Gibson was unsurprised when a familiar presence made itself known at Gibson's elbow just outside the first shop he intended to visit that afternoon. How Hickey secured permission to leave the ship, Gibson did not know. But neither did he spend a moment wondering; Hickey always had his methods. 

As aggravating as Hickey could be, he could also be charming -- and Gibson counted himself well and truly charmed. The next time he was completely certain they were free from the gaze of prying eyes (for he was only charmed, not stupid), Gibson pulled Hickey into the shadow of a hibiscus bush and kissed him until he dared not continue for fear of where it might lead them. 

Hickey always did that -- woke Gibson up, made the monotony of ship life bearable. And it wasn’t only sex. Gibson had acknowledged that to himself, though what Hickey felt, what Hickey thought in the deepest recess of his heart, was still as hidden from Gibson as on the first day they had met.

Whatever was or was not stashed in a man's soul aside, the outing was going rather swimmingly, until the pair stepped into the main market square. Two dozen or more vendors hawked their wares from stalls or blankets laid out on every side, but Gibson zeroed in on the familiar navy-issued coat in the crowd right away. This one was currently filled by Mr. Goodsir, who was talking to an old native woman, for some damnable reason. The conversation apparently nearly finished, Goodsir shut the small book that Gibson now noticed he had been writing in. It appeared to be a dictionary for the language of the Sandwich Islanders; Goodsir had been scratching notes in the margins. Quite a lot of notes. The two now seemed to be in the process of taking their leave of each other. 

Gibson tried to turn away, but he could see that Goodsir had already spotted him, probably due to the same damn uniform. Hickey, of course, managed to slip away again, avoiding what was sure to be a pointless and boring conversation; interactions with Goodsir often were. Gibson was alone with his packages when Goodsir set off to greet him. 

Unintentionally, he met the old woman's eyes as she watched Goodsir cross towards him. Her eyes were of the deepest brown; no different than any other natives, Gibson thought. But... they did seem different. Clear and challenging -- but, more than that, familiar. How could they be familiar, he wondered. 

The memory coalesced like fog in his brain, pulling him back to a time of ice and numbness. The Esquimaux woman they'd seen in the distance, accompanied by an older man, both silently watching the ships as they passed. Those two were the only people they saw at all through the long stretch of their voyage through the unmapped portion of the Northwest Passage proper. The ice had scraped so close to the ship, then. Close enough to groan and shudder against the hull. The thought that the Terror might be caught by the ice went through Gibson’s head then, and bone-deep dread shot through him. But, they were not, and the ship kept sailing, all under the inscrutable gaze of that Esquimaux woman. 

For a moment, the images of the Esquimaux and the Sandwich Islander overlapped in his mind. Neither of the women looked particularly alike, except for those terrible eyes. Gibson wasn't in the habit of being easily shamed, but he looked down to fiddle with the twine wrapping his parcel, giving it all his attention.

"Mr. Gibson," Goodsir said when he reached him a moment later, drawing Gibson’s eyes back up. The woman was walking away, and she did not turn back. 

“Mr. Gibson?” Goodsir said again. 

Goodsir wore an uncertain little half-smile when Gibson looked over at him. Gibson could tell nearly from the first day of the expedition that Goodsir hadn’t the faintest idea how to interact with the rest of the crew, but instead of engendering empathy in him, it simply annoyed him, and Gibson knew he was not alone in that. 

"Hello, Mr. Goodsir, good afternoon," Gibson said reluctantly.

"Yes, lovely day, isn't it? I was just saying as much to Anne."

Gibson looked at him blankly. "Anne?" A pause. "The native woman you were just talking to?"

"Yes, 'Anne' was the name she gave me, though, if I understand correctly, it was not the one she was born with."

"You could understand her?"

“Well, to a point. It was something of a pidgin mix of English and Hawaiian — that is what the natives call themselves, you see. If I’m understanding her right, the woman was sending supplies to her son. He’s, ah, a leper. There’s a colony established on an island here. Moloka'i.” Goodsir pronounced the native word with great care, as if he particularly enjoyed saying it, making a strange sound in his throat at the end. 

Gibson wasn’t especially interested in native words, or the natives who said them, but leprosy caught his attention. "Leprosy, sir? Is there an outbreak on the island?"

"No, no. It is here, but the disease is not so very contagious. It does not run as rampant and easily among a population as cholera or tuberculosis."

Gibson barely had time to heave a mental sigh of relief before Goodsir went on: "They do say it is particularly bad for the Sandwich Islander, however. It seems the disease was quite unknown to them in isolation, and they are vulnerable to it now." 

The idea of it caught on Gibson's mind. The notion of falling apart slowly where you stood. Of knowing your end was coming for so long before it actually arrived. And there, right now, in some desolate place out there was a group of people all suffering together. He imagined a leper looking into the face of his neighbor, and seeing in that man's face the same malady that was killing him. Such a drawn-out breakdown of body and soul must be intolerable. 

"Then let's not speak on it more, sir."

Goodsir looked faintly surprised. As if he is wondering why anyone wouldn't want to discuss the finer points of leprosy transmission.

* * *

That night, Gibson dreamed again; especially vividly.

It was the Actic again. And there was something heavy on his shoulder. It was the Esquimeax woman (or, was it the Sandwich Island native?) whose mittened hand was gripping his shoulder. 

“You should have died on the ice.”

The wind howled by constantly, but Gibson didn't feel the cold. There was a plate in his lap. And, on that plate, a lump of red meat. Gibson carved off a bite-sized portion (for he realized suddenly that a knife and a fork were held delicately in his hands), and placed it in his mouth. The woman watched.

Gibson chewed and chewed. He noticed a palm tree in the distance growing incongruously out of the ice. He cut another bite, and chewed that too. He knew now that it was his own calf muscle in the plate, but still he ate. His thigh was next, thick and bloody on the porcelain, then his belly, then chest. He consumed all, until he was just a mouth. And then, as the dream began to slip away and the edges of Gibson consciousness registered the call of morning seabirds, even that disappeared. 

He was gone.

Gibson blinked awake in his bunk on the Terror. The bell for duty would ring any moment, but for now he was alone and uncalled upon in his bunk.

* * *

Another night, another stately dinner for the captains of the Franklin Expedition. The long-awaited invitation from King Kamehameha III had finally arrived. 

But already there were rumblings that their victory might not be quite as triumphant as it appeared at first blush. Reports were in circulation that the Terror and Erebus had encountered an unusually warm Arctic season during their voyage, and that there was no guarantee that conditions would ever be so again. Despite their completed map, it may come to be that very few merchant or passenger ships will ever truly use the passage.

And so the trio of captains departed, looking to Gibson almost as a group of dogs; Sir John, the stately mastiff, led the way, followed by the sleek, eager-to-please greyhound, and the slow and tired basset hound.

It was unusual for the three captains to leave the ships all at the same time in the evening. Two ships, left with officers in charge, but without a captain between them, was not generally considered a prudent strategic decision in the minds of the Admiralty. An occasion such as this, however, and in a port that was peaceful (if not especially politically stable), rules were bent. 

Lieutenant Little was now the ranking officer on the Terror for the night. Little was a respectable man and a capable officer, of that there was no doubt. However, he was also predictable to those that watched closely; and, as such, it was easy for Hickey to engineer some trifle that would allow Gibson and himself to slip away for a few undisturbed hours. Gibson wasn't even worried about discovery, despite his typical habits. With a mind as free and light as someone like Gibson could have under the circumstances, the pair's boots thudded hollowly on the dock as they walked towards shore.

Gibson joked and Hickey laughed. Hickey's hand pressed into the small of his back at every twist of the path, when it was dark and lonely enough for no others to see. Gibson's spirits were lighter than the air.

"Captain Cook was killed here, you know." Here, under the warm, tropical moon, this grim subject was apparently Hickey' topic of choice.

"Every school child knows that."

"Eaten by natives. Why'd they do that, you think? What makes a man crack open another man and eat what he finds inside?"

Gibson shrugged. "Who knows why natives do what they do."

"I wonder what they thought they would gain?" But Hickey's tone was strangely contemplative, instead of derisive.

When Gibson turned to Hickey, he found his gaze elsewhere. His eyes focused somewhere in the middle-distance, glinting in the low light.

"Cornelius," Gibson said.

Hickey seemed to come back to himself, and looked back at Gibson with eyes that were crinkled by a smirk. "Oh, come on, Billy. I'm just messing about. Reckon it almost gives you second thoughts about taking a night stroll. Anyone could sidle up next to you and just... take a bite." Hickey bit lightly at the back of Gibson’s neck. 

It was as playful as Hickey ever got, but, still, Gibson was disquieted. It couldn’t be for fear of onlookers — they were well back from the trail now — but the feeling persisted, even when Hickey’s hands began to roam. 

Hickey seemed to realize that he'd dampened Gibson's mood. "Anyway, I'd have your back. Protect it from those cannibals."

Gibson was spared from answering by their arrival at the town. It was well into evening now, and the night crowd was small. The two of them walked along the square passed mostly by sailors from other vessels, though there was the occasional native or plantation laborer.

What happened then was almost comical. A white man, perhaps the same age as Gibson and Hickey — a man Gibson would not have paid the smallest mind to under other circumstances — walked out onto the street while they were passing. The stranger’s head swiveled as if it were on a stick, his eyes wide, and trained on Hickey. 

Perhaps not such a stranger, then. At least to one of them. 

"Edward? Edward Chambers?" The man said, still looking at Hickey. His voice sounded like home, like England. Though perhaps it called to mind the cold, unforgiving streets more than the warm, family hearth.

Hickey did not turn around.

The man jogged to catch up; he grasped Hickey's shoulder to turn him. "Edward?"

Hickey faced him smoothly, his mouth quirking up into a little smile at the ends. "You must be mistaken, sir. My name is Cornelius Hickey."

Something was off. Gibson had known Hickey long enough to tell that his smile was not one of his friendly ones. Hickey looked at Gibson over the man's shoulder and made a motion with his hand. 

"I see you two are old friends. I'll take my leave of you, and let you catch up. Good night." If Gibson sounded stilted, it did not matter to the other men. The stranger (who had been ignoring Gibson up to this point) gave him a distracted nod, then turned back to Hickey. Gibson practically marched away, then turned down a side street where he could slink along in the shadows. Hidden, but still close enough to hear enough of the conversation.

"I thought it was you, Eddy! Going by Hickey now, eh?" The man's eyes dismissively took in the rest of Hickey's person. "And what a sharp uniform you have! Much finer than the rags I last saw you in -- why, I don't even see a spot of shit on you now."

"I'm sorry sir, you have the wrong man," Hickey said, still pleasant as a May breeze.

The facade of friendliness dropped. “Listen here, you little shit. You think I don’t remember you eating from the rubbish pile and stealing from that sick doxy? I know you're not too good to help an old friend out -- especially not one who knows the real you, and ain't afraid to say it."

"Is that right? You know me, old friend?"

"You bet your arse I do. Now, you're going to get me an audience with your captain, and vouch for me. And they better take me on, or I won't exactly stay quiet about your identical twin that I knew back in England, you understand me?"

Hickey smiled wider and chuckled. Just a little good-natured ribbing between old friends, his face said. The hairs on the back of Gibson's neck stood up.

The man laughed too. Hickey produced a flask from somewhere in his coat and offered it to the man. He drank from it, then Hickey did too -- or, at least he seemed to. Looking like quite the pair, they made their way down one side street, then another.

Gibson followed after, far enough behind that he wouldn't be noticed, though Hickey probably knew he was there. The man didn't though, Gibson could see his upturned mouth moving when he turned to talk to Hickey, some low, indistinct snatches of jokes and conversation drifted back to Gibson. The sounds washed over him in a soft wave, over the soft tapping of his footsteps on the road; it was as he was in a dream, body submerged in the warm embrace of sleep while his mind roamed where it would. What was happening? Who was this man?

"I had half a mind that I saw you last week, too -- and now I know I did. You were loitering about the docks by those two Navy ships, eh? What -- hoping for a quick poke? Haha, just kidding, of course.” Here the man stopped for a moment, his eyes widening a fraction, then he guffawed loudly. They had made it to the edge of the ocean, the tide slowly making it's way of the beach; empty but for the two of them. The lights from the town twinkled in the distance. "Never would have taken you for a Navy man!" the stranger continued, "Well, I suppose _you_ still aren't a Navy man, are you, Mr. Hickey?" 

Hickey reached back inside his coat, but didn't bring out the flask this time. A different object glinted in his hand for just a moment before he swept in action.

Hickey's arm became something mechanical. Something that Gibson has seen in airless factories, the machines with sharp needles weaving in and out of fabric at a pace that blurred under the human eye as the child attending it slowly fed in more material. 

But it wasn't a bolt of calico under Hickey's knife -- it was the man's soft belly. A belly that was rapidly turning into red mush under the strikes. It was all happening faster than Gibson could react; he couldn't have stopped it if he wanted too.. and part of him wasn't sure he wanted to.

Hickey's other hand went to cover the other man's mouth, though Gibson wasn’t sure if the other man even tried to scream. They dropped together onto the beach in a kind of controlled slide. Soon the man was flat on his back with Hickey crouched over him, hand still silencing him. From Gibson’s vantage point it almost looked as if Hickey was kneeling in prayer, and for a moment Gibson allowed himself to imagine that was indeed the case. What sort of god would Hickey be praying to, he wondered. 

Then Hickey looked straight at Gibson where he was half-hidden by the brush. Hickey motioned him over and, Lord help him, he came. 

Gibson looked down at the man. His eyes were slitted and his chest rose as fast and as shallowly as a rabbit cornered after a long chase by a dog. After a shorter amount of time than Gibson would have suspected, the breaths slowed to nothing, and the man died right there, with Hickey and Gibson staring down at him on either side, like twin sentinels.

After, the two of them dragged the man further into the brush, far away from either the surf or the huts and storefronts that dot the closest road. They cover the body well with grass and fronds. It won't long hide him from anyone who comes poking around when the body starts to smell, but it will do for now.

Gibson's hands were shaking.

Hickey pulled a cigarillo from an interior pocket (kept next to his knife, perhaps?)and lit it at his lips. The point added a third, angry bit of light, along with his reflective eyes.

"I wasn't supposed to have to do this again," Hickey said, almost conversationally. The words drifted out with the cigarillo smoke into the night air. It was the closest to regretful that Gibson had ever seen Hickey look.

Gibson realized, horribly, that some part of Hickey had believed that. Had wanted so badly for there to be nothing but warm days and tropical fruit in the Sandwich Islands that a little, hopeful part of him had begun to believe it. 

There was something sad for Gibson in that. In Hickey believing his own lies. Gibson had been used by Hickey, seen others tricked and fooled by Hickey's manipulations, but whatever sly devil Hickey might be, he'd always seemed to be in control of himself, with clarity in his own mind. 

Now it was glaringly obvious that Hickey fell prey to willful blindness like any other man. The honesty shocked him. A sickening love overwhelmed him.

"Come with me," Hickey's eyes shone under the moonlight like that of a night animal's eyes caught in the glow of lamplight. Whatever Hickey kept in his chest that passed for his heart was hard and misshapen, but it was _real_. It was the feeling in the words Hickey spoke, more than anything, that kept Gibson near.

"They're going to split up the land soon, Billy! There's opportunity here!” Hickey’s slick, bloody fingers intertwined with his. "Have you ever even thought you'd have a chance at such a thing before?"

Hickey's eyes went soft, and his thumb moved against the warm center of Gibson's palm. "And we can be together here," Hickey said.

Gibson’s innards gave a jerk, eliciting a strange pleasure-pain. “Things don’t change,” he said shortly. Gibson watched Hickey's fingers leave a streak of dark blood behind as he pulled his own hand back.

“Sometimes, you can make them change.” 

“By the point of the knife?” His words felt so weak.

Hickey smiled that particular smile that twisted his face and made his eyes shine bright. “You’ve an objection to a man doing what he has to do, like any other?”

“I’ve an objection to being hanged.”

“You underestimate sheer force of will, Billy. Almost every man does.”

They looked at each other then, in that silence. Hickey was made strangely pale in the moonlight, and a full head shorter than Gibson. Night sounds and the roar of the surf filled the air between them. 

Hickey had always had the stronger personality of the two of them. Gibson knew that; it was something that attracted him. It had tempted Gibson into making those first subtle overtures to Hickey, back when the ships had been but a few months at sea. Gibson still found that force of will enticing now. 

But this was Hickey asking for something from him — not a favor, but something as close to honest as he had ever seen Hickey. 

Over the months, Gibson had fought. He’d told himself that what he had going with Hickey was a fine thing — quite fine. But if it ever came down to it, Gibson would have to do what he needed to do to attend to his career. He had no particular love for his craft, but the job kept clothes on his back and meals on the table, which was a fair sight better than most, where he came from. There was even a chance that he could leave the Navy one day with enough with enough to let him start some other, modest profession. A new life. 

He had told himself that if he were forced, Gibson would choose himself over Hickey. 

But now he saw that for the lie it really was. He’d fought — but he was a fish on the line, fighting against the inexorable. He might turn away from Hickey now and again — leave him for a time, even — but he was drawn back into his orbit, in the end. And... it did appear that this may be the end. Of the life he knew, in any case. 

Hickey was in a tight spot, but he seemed more himself than ever. That magnetic, interior part of him was closer to the surface than before now -- it was shining from his eyes, sounding in his voice. Gibson was transfixed.

Gibson looked down at Hickey, whose face tilted back up at him. The moonlight shone off his white teeth. Gibson was a rabbit, watching a fox.

His course must be decided right now, in this very moment.

Hickey reached for his hand again, it was hot where Gibson’s was cold. He intertwined their fingers. 

As Gibson ran with Hickey, lungs already heaving and burning, tears of exertion filled his eyes. The beach blurred in front of him into nothing more than a juddering, off-white expanse under a night sky. With each stride, the scene shifted: sky and sand, sky and ice, sky and sand.

Sky and ice

**Author's Note:**

> My midnight confession: I fudged a bunch of dates and naval practices.


End file.
